A Night at the Boleyn Ground

Reading today’s papers I see that I was lucky. The queue outside Upton Park tube station stretch for maybe a hundred metres and the streets where lined with shield-and-baton bearing Met officers. Nevertheless, things seemed to run smoothly. Not long after, I learned, all hell had broken loose and these few streets in East London had turned into what some described as a “war zone”.

Three hours earlier I found myself at the Boleyn Tavern, trying to avoid having beer thrown at me. I was standing in a pub doing social-anthropologic field work on the 21st century tribes of working class England, or football supporters, as they’re also referred to as. I’d come to watch West Ham United take on Milwall in the second round of the Carlings League Cup, and was in the middle of a pre-game ritual including singing, shouting obscenities about their rivals and, of course, throwing half-filled plastic-cups of beer in the air. Abiding to the laws of gravity beer falls to the ground and at one point I found myself between the beer and the floor. Oops!

The match itself is worth remembering. Together with 24,491 others I was packed into the Boleyn Ground, or Upton Park as it’s usually known. A friend of mine from the area had gotten us tickets at the Bobby Moore Stand/South Bank, which was inhabited mostly with, from what I could see, fairly die-hard home supporters. For those not having an intimate knowledge of London football rivalries, myself included, Milwall is not very popular in this part of town, and long before the match began there was a heightened tension in the air.

Milwall is a few divisions below West Ham in the league system, so normally this should be a walk-in for the home team. It was far from it. West Ham got of to a decent start, but half-way into the first half Milwall took the lead. This seemed to knock the air out of the home squad, and for the next forty minutes or so, until only fifteen minutes remained of the match, there was not much to enjoy for the over 20,000 home supporters. They sang, they cheered, they shouted and they cursed, but for an outsider the entertainment was much more to be found on the stands than on the pitch. In the far end, where the Milwall supporters were gathered, things started to happen. From where I was standing, some 120 metres away, it was hard to tell exactly what was going on, but steadily more and more police and security guards gravitated towards the area, creating a solid blockade between the Milwall supporters and the pitch and between the supporters and the local majority. Then the bubble burst and the tension, for now at least, was released. With full time less than five minutes away West Ham equalized and crowds from three sides flooded the grass in a jubilant explosion, the guards unable to do anything but watch them in despair. It took a good five minutes or so before the pitch was cleared and the match could recommence.

Full time ended in a draw and early in the first extra half West Ham got a penalty shot. The guards braced themselves, only to find once again the pitch crowded as the home team taking the lead was celebrated. When the match finally ended, 3-1 to West Ham, once again the pitch filled with cheerful boys and girls, men and women celebrating.

After the match the streets were packed, people singing and shouting. As I walked to the tube I saw the police prepared for trubble but everything went smoothly all the way home. A night that could have ended so badly was just one long and joyful study of human interactions and turn of emotions. Then I watched the news this morning and saw what had happened after I left…


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SdJNu_KtA-4

Brick Lane

I’m not from this part of town. I’m not even from this very city. I’m a tourist. I’m an intruder, and it’s tattooed on my forehead. I’m a tall, blond, blue-eyed Norwegian in an Indian/Pakistani/Bangladeshi area. I’m in exotic Brick Lane. Yeah, right!

There’s nothing exotic about Brick Lane. On the contrary, Brick Lane on a Sunday in late August 2009 is a hang-out for the middle-class children and grand-children of 1968. It’s a London symbol of western cultural relativism and liberal colonial guilt. The entire street from one end to the other is filled with white Bob Marley-loving hippies and cappuccino-drinking slim-jeans & hat urban hipsters selling each other books on spiritual enlightenment, the “for Dummies” version, and African wannebe artefacts. And I fit right in.

I jot these lines down while sitting at a café called “Verge” and drinking herbal tea. In my bag is a copy of St. Augustine’s Confessions. Just after I’ve sat down and put my block on the table and started writing an old man, probably remembering when this place was still exotic for anyone looking like me, walks by and exerts “Ah, inspiration!” as his eyes fall upon my activity.

Obviously English is the most common tongue I’ve hear around here, but Hindi is not number two. The language I’ve heard second most often is French. And it’s not Maghreb French, nor is it the French of the banlieus. No, it’s proper French. It’s the French you teachers whish they commanded. It’s the French of Jean Sarkozy when he lunches with his mother-in-law.

The guys walking by are fit and slim. They wear loose and light summer clothes, sport Beatles anno 1964-long hair, smart hats and Ray-Ban Wayfarer sun glasses. They’re my age and a little older, a little younger. Some just got their A-levels and are heading for university, others graduated years ago and are already in comfortable jobs. The common denominator is that they’re all educated, successful and on top of their lives.

I'm in Brick Lane and there's nothing exotic about it.